


Good Morning

by sunshineandsnow (orphan_account)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9303293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sunshineandsnow
Summary: Wanda says 'good morning' to Bucky for the first time and he gets flustered. Then they drink tea so he doesn't have to worry about what to say to her. (Rated T only for slight language. :p)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seductiveturnip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seductiveturnip/gifts).



**i.**

_It’s impolite to stare_ , a voice reminds him. (A memory. His mother, maybe? Or Steve’s mother. Sarah. He can’t remember.)

He can’t seem to help it, when she’s in the room. They weren’t formally introduced. The lack of understanding makes things between them feel awkward. They are two strangers co-existing. But, she doesn’t seem like a stranger. Something about her is so familiar. It wears at him; keeps him awake in the middle of the night, wondering.

(Can she sense his confusion, when it comes to her? He’s heard what she can do. _A witch_ , they called her, _a witch playing mind games_. That description painted such an ugly picture. She is nothing like they said.)

What is it about her? He observes her and is reminded of a whisper—everything she does is done quietly, softly. She walks as if over a minefield, the kitchen tiles as ticking bombs, pressure switches. (There are no explosives in the floors. He’s checked.) Why does she move like she might break something? The rooms are not made of glass.

(She is glass. All porcelain and those wide eyes. _Doll-face_ : an ancient word he hasn’t had much use for, but it comes to mind when he sees her.)

He hasn’t gotten to know her as much as he’d like. The others, they feel like wardens pacing the prison halls—watchers, eyes everywhere and on everything he does. _Barnes_ , they call him. (It’s better than _soldier_ , he supposes.)

But she. Hm. Something about her mouth—laughter lines, when she catches his gaze, surrounded by well-meaning friends, Steve trying to get him to hold a conversation—like she sees, how he’s feeling. Caged animal or display case. Smiles like she understands.

_You too, huh?_

It’s unsettling. (It’s reassuring.)

The first time she mumbles a good morning to him he freezes up, caught off guard. ( _Me?_ )

She doesn’t wait for his response; just continues to the kitchen counter, starting up the coffee machine. He leans against the counter, trying not to watch her so obviously. (He hides behind the rim of his mug: black coffee, bitter, but warm. It reminds him of some other life long-lost.) She ignores him. No, not like that. He doesn’t want her to notice him.

This is the closest they’ve ever been. Her hands glow rosy-red as ribbons of light weave off her fingertips, pulling a ceramic mug from its place on the shelf. The scarlet releases the mug onto the counter, her hands snuffing out the red. Her skin is like snow and frost and something forbidden. (Stop looking at her hands.) He hasn’t dared to get closer. Doesn’t dare touch her.

 _Was that a smile? Did she?_   She smiles at him and he doesn't know what to do. (He remembers being different—Steve tells him he was different, all charm and confidence, boyish and bold—why does this _girl_ make him so weak?) He can’t say anything, can’t speak, can’t move. She’s moving on. Tiptoes out of the kitchen. Thank god.

(But he didn’t really want her to leave.)

 

**ii.**

The compound is mostly empty, for what seems to be the first time. The rooms can’t decide what to do with all that space. (Why does he feel responsible for filling the rooms up?)

He gravitates to the training room, trying to occupy his time. Steve said they would all be back soon: a reminder given to a child. (He means well.) The team is away—leaving their hazards behind, their ticking time-bombs. The soldier and the witch. (What a pair they make.)

How do they trust him, alone with her? How does _she_ trust him? Doesn’t she know what he is; what he’s capable of?

He distracts his half-awake mind with the excuse of exercising, working overused muscles and punching out all the unwanted memories, one by one. (Not that they ever really fade.) The sweat and the aching loses its’ appeal after a while. Outside, the sun begins to shy away, dark clouds forming in the sky, an omen of bad weather in the afternoon. He showers; imagines the rushing water as rain outside. (Can never fully rid himself of the grime, of his disgust towards this disfigured body. Droplets of moisture gather on the metal surface of his left hand. Clean hands. ~~One day he won’t see the blood.~~ )

A fresh change of clothes, that still smell like the superstore they were purchased in, non-descript in color. (Makes it all feel blank. No expectations. No past life to live up to.)

His footsteps are heavy through these empty halls, echoes made in the fluid silence. Grey sunlight casting fuzzy shadows. It’s comforting, this quiet. (It’s haunting. _A_ _ghost story_ , they used to call him. _Y_ _ou are a ghost_.) He prefers the solitude; the assurance of safety, not necessarily his own.

It’s too late for coffee, but someone left a pot of tea on the stove. (Steve? Natasha? Who drinks tea, here? Does he know? If he did, he can’t remember, now.) He places a cup of the liquid in the microwave, flinches at the loud _beep_ when it's finished. Removes the mug; puts in sugar; stirs. (Such a simple process. All 1-2-3 steps. No thought needed. Mechanical. Familiar.)

He burns his tongue on the first sip. He doesn’t mind.

A corner of the couch, just across the room, beckons. His back feels rigid against the plush seat. (Uses his flesh fingers to run through his still-wet hair, reining in the strands, tucking them behind his ears.) He gazes blankly out the window. A thunderstorm hangs in the air, like static, waiting.

He hears her enter the room before he sees her. Long, black sleeves on her arms, a sheer fabric that can’t be doing much to keep her warm. Those ridiculous knee-socks. (That he likes.) Looks away, away, away, hopes she can’t read his mind, can’t hear his triumphant thoughts. ( _Y_ _ou found me in all this emptiness._ )

Walks right past him and over to the stove, she does, reaching for that pot of tea. A curious glance is thrown back to him, one that he catches. His lips refuse to form the words he wants to say. _S_ _orry, if I’d’ve known the tea was yours I wouldn’t have taken any. ~~please forgive me.~~ I’m sorry._  

One of her veiled smiles shines at him. (He prays he isn’t blushing. ~~T~~ ~~he soldier~~ Bucky Barnes does not _blush_.)

“It was for anyone,” she says quietly, loud enough for him to hear from across the room. Laughter tugs at her mouth. Doesn’t make it to the air. “It’s okay,” she says, _it’s okay_. But the silence feels wrong. Should he say something back to her? Oh, god, why can’t he speak to her?

_Tell me what you want to hear, and I’ll say it._

He watches her ~~stop looking, go back to the window, the storm won’t mind you staring~~ heat up a cup of tea, adding a spoonful of sugar, more honey than he thinks advisable. Sucks the sticky substance off of her fingers.

(Damn.)

“Was it too spicy?” she asks.

“No,” he croaks out, voice haggard, like it’s never been used. (He spoke. He said something to her. Is this what redemption feels like?)

“I spice the tea,” she explains, wandering over to him ~~don’t freak out don’t just don’t~~ and hovering nearby, cradling the cup of steaming tea in her palms. “My mother’s recipe.”

( _T_ _ell me about the tea. About your mother, your father, your brother whose name I have yet to hear_.) They drink their tea in silence.

The storm finally breaks, an hour or so later, and she is still sitting in the room with him. But she might be sleeping. (She can fall asleep with him nearby; what a miracle.) He doesn’t leave, doesn’t move from his spot, empty mug now cold in his colder hands. Waits until she wakes up, mumbles a few sleepy apologies, then wanders away.

(He hopes she'll wander back to him. Soon.)     

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/kudos are much appreciated! ;3  
> Message prompts/requests to my [tumblr](http://winterxblood.tumblr.com/ask)!  
> 


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